


machining tolerances

by shinycrumb



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Affection, Canon Asexual Character, Other, Pre-Relationship, Prosthesis, Queerplatonic Relationships, Trust, although technically, but strictly no pining in this house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28039002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinycrumb/pseuds/shinycrumb
Summary: The legs are magical, but they aren’t perfect.(or, the inherent intimacy of letting someone work on your assistive tech)
Relationships: Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom & Zolf Smith, Celiquillithon "Cel" Sidebottom/Zolf Smith
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	machining tolerances

The legs are magical, but they aren’t perfect. The casing doesn’t quite seal the whole way around, and of course there have to be some gaps so the joint can flex.

After so long with a peg leg, he’s still not really over the novelty of being able to flex his left ankle again. Having a left ankle to flex, again.

Anyway, nice as it is generally, lately that damn gap’s let some grit get in where he can’t get at it. Not sure what — a pebble or a rivet or who knows what, but for days it’s been knocking around in there. Just a rattle, at first, so he’s just been ignoring it and getting on with things, but then as he’s negotiating the narrow ladderway he feels something lock up inside the joint and he thumps gracelessly down the last few steps.

Couldn’t’ve been too loud, since it hasn’t brought Wilde away from the wheel to peer down the hatch with a dry remark about “sea legs” or some other bollocks. And Wilde knows better than that in any case. But he sits at the bottom of the ladderway for a moment nonetheless, taking stock. Turns out he can still move the ankle, if he works at it; he rolls it experimentally a few times and the movement gets a little easier, so he hauls himself back upright and continues on towards the galley. He can tell the whatever-it-is is still wedged in there, but it’ll keep for a bit.

* * *

No one has a cabin with a door, really, this many people on a ship this size. Captain excepted, of course. Cel’s staked out an out-of-the-way corner of the engine room, half-behind one of the enormous pressure vessels confining the elementals. It’s warm, and oddly hushed, the hard edges of every sound blunted by the steady crackling hum of the elemental.

Cel’s tacked up a blanket as a makeshift noren, and in the gap where it doesn’t reach the floor Zolf can see a few sketches spread across the deck. He can just make out a thread of melodic humming. At home, then. So to speak. He stumps his way over and raps his knuckles on the bulkhead.

The humming cuts off. There’s a brief interlude of rustling and scuffling, and then Cel pushes aside the curtain. “Oh, ah, Mr Smith, hi! Something I can do for you? Everything good on the ship?”

Zolf shifts his weight from foot to foot and grimaces as the joint grinds again. “I, ah— I was just wondering if you could take a look at my leg.”

“Sorry, your what?”

“My leg, it’s— the ankle’s just gone a bit— you know— and I was hoping you could… have a look.”

Cel peers at him. They’ve set aside their goggles for the evening, and without them their hair has relaxed out of its usual shock to fall messily over their forehead. It’s— endearing. “Mr Smith,” they say consideringly, “is this a, you know, a euphemism of some sort? Or, or, or a pretext?”

He’s struck speechless for a second, and while he’s struggling to reorient, Cel’s already going on.

“Because if it is, I’d— I mean, that’s something I’d consider, I just feel like it’s best if, ah, if all parties are on the same page about what exactly that means?”

He’s not blushing. He’s not.

“You know, make sure everyone’s, let’s say, reading out of the same Campbell?”

“It’s not a— no! It’s— There’s—” He finally catches on to the crinkle at the corner of Cel’s eyes and the sly tilt of their mouth. They know exactly what they’re doing, damn them. And damn his own stupid mouth, which he can feel pulling into a grin under his beard despite himself.

Cel relents, grinning openly back, and holds the curtain open a bit wider for him. “Anyway, come on in, have a seat, excuse the mess—” It’s really not that messy; Cel’s meticulous with their tools. Zolf waits as they clear a pile of sketches off a low crate, then eases himself down to work off his left boot.

Cel plunks themself back down on the deck in front of him, one leg tucked over the other, and leans around to pull over a tray of equipment. “So! What seems to be the trouble?”

Their usual restless energy sharpens to an intent focus as he explains. Having all of that focus directed right at him throws him off-kilter, and he’s not quite relieved, not quite disappointed when they break their gaze and reach for his leg to get started.

Then they hesitate with their hands just above Zolf’s shin, frowning. They’re still for long enough that eventually he frowns in turn. “Problem?”

“Do you have much sensation in these? I suppose there must be some or you’d have terrible difficulty walking, like going around with both your feet asleep, or—”

“Metal ain’t known to be ticklish, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Well, true, that would be awkward, although really, um, really fascinating from a mechanical-magical-biological perspective, but what I mean is, is this going to hurt for you? Anything you need?”

Zolf blinks. “No, ah— No, just pressure, mostly. Hot and cold a bit. Maybe could’ve, dunno, magic-ed up more connection, but— bigger things to worry about.”

Cel hums and finally lets their hands rest on the metal casing, probing carefully for the catches that hold it in place and setting it aside. They cup his heel in one warm palm and push his foot gently from side to side, bending close to listen for the mechanism binding up. He watches with a sudden rush of affection as their own ankle flexes to match what they’re doing to his; he doesn’t think they’ve realized. Then he’s nearly caught out at his— fine, yes, his mooning when they nod to themself, sit back, and slip two long fingers between the struts of his shin, feeling for something.

“—ah, hey, yep, here’s the problem!” There’s a muffled scrape, a ping, and then the right-wrong thunk of his ankle realigning. Cel delicately extracts a sharp, whitish shard and tucks it into a box of mismatched scraps. Zolf can’t quite make out what it is. Bit of ceramic from that jug that Friedrich had knocked over the other week, maybe? Weird. Well, whatever it is, if it’s useful to Cel they’re welcome to it.

“Everything feeling good, before we close it back up? I think that was it, but that must have been a pain— well, not a pain, since you said— but, you know, pretty irritating, so best to check— All better?” When he nods, they press the casing back into place and clamber to their feet, ruefully shaking out pins and needles. The warm echo of their hands lingers in the metal as he pulls his boot on, and he’s suddenly aware of the novelty of it. It’s been… a long year.

“Thanks, Cel. It’s— you’re—” He’s not sure where he was going with that. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“My pleasure. Really.” They offer him a hand up and hold the curtain aside for him as he turns to go. “And, ah, Zolf? Don’t be a stranger, you’re welcome to come back any time. Well, maybe not if I’m sleeping, that’s less convenient, although it’s really mostly inconvenient because it’s hard to make sense to other people when you’ve just woken up— anyway, maybe you can loan me a novel sometime.”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Well. Might do.” He gives up on convincing himself he’s not blushing, lets it warm him all the way back to his own quiet corner. Has to be something in his collection Cel hasn’t read yet.


End file.
